


A Little Beast

by ThePunkiest



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, reader is a street kid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6234838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePunkiest/pseuds/ThePunkiest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chara was gone. Passed away hundreds of years ago, his skeleton buried in an ancient cemetery. The humans, in a desperate attempt to appease the monster king and queen, delivered the next best thing to their deceased child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The streets are dirty, ma

“Better watch out,

Better not cry,

Better not pout,

I’m telling you why…

‘Cause I will break your FUCKING kneecaps.”

She shook the stranger roughly, making the man groan and his head loll to the side. His nose was bleeding heavily, drops of viscous scarlet staining his blue shirt. She dropped him with a sneer, disgust clouding her otherwise pretty face. The man’s body landed hard on the concrete ground, with his head making an audible _clunk_. She bent down and rifled through the man’s expensive suit coat, knuckles awash in blood, and she smiled as she found her prize. “I toldja, Claus,” She said as she gripped the man’s leather wallet inside his Armani suit, “I told ya not ta struggle, but ya did anyway. Now,” she stood up again with his wallet in her palm, and poked his cheek with the tip of one of her filthy sneakers, “I’mma leave ya alive. ‘Cause I don’t wanna good lookin’ guy like you to go to waste; but if you ever, ever try ta steal my fucking money again, I’ll stitch your mouth shut, snip off your eyelids, and gouge your ears.” She nudged the man’s face again, and he opened his eyes. With a sweet smile, she pushed into his cheek harder, making him groan, and retracted her foot. Without a second glance, she disappeared down a dark alleyway, a tomcat in the dusk.

As the young lady made her way down a street (affectionately called “Murder Lane” by the locals), it was easy to infer that she was less than savory; the way that she carried herself suggested so. Though she was not intimidating in stature, in certainty, there was something about her that proved to be aggressive. Be it the way that she walked, her cold eyes, her hollow cheeks; with one glance, a person would know that she was cruel.

And everybody on that particular street knew that she would sell them out for a _nickel_ if they were not her friend.

Suddenly, the girl made a turn and disappeared inside a musty bar so quickly, that if she were being watched, she would have seemingly disappeared. She pressed her hand to the filthy handle of the _Letterback,_ and pushed. Instantly the air surrounding the girl swirled with scents of cigarette smoke, stale beer, and male sweat. She traipsed in, the only other female in the bar a prostitute, and let the door swing shut behind her. Not a single pair of eyes followed her as she made her way to the bar, each person too busy with their own affairs to be bothered to stare at a lonesome little girl. When she reached the bar and caught the bartender’s gaze, she hopped up on a stool and threw a fifty dollar bill on the counter. The bartender smiled wryly and caught the girl’s eyes again with his own. “Nice to see you, too, Chloe,” he said as he snatched up the bill. The girl scowled, her already hollowed cheeks making her look thirty years too old. The bartended quickly disappeared into the kitchen, and soon returned with a platter of nachos and a Shirley temple. “Don’ fuckin’ call me that, Patch,” the girl said as she pulled the food and drink towards herself, already beginning to shove chips in her mouth. Patch watched the girl eat with a sort of paternal gaze. “Some guy in a suit’s been looking for ya, Chloe.” He said, picking up a dirty beer mug. The girl’s loud chewing and swallowing didn’t falter. Patch tried again with a grimace and a hard stare over the girl’s shoulder. “A real nice suit,” he said, “and sunglasses. Seemed like a government type.”

At this, the girl looked up from her food with a deadly glint in her eyes.

“The fuck is he, Patch?” She hissed, and pushed the greasy plate away. Patch simply shook his head in dismay. The girl jumped off the stool and whipped around, grasping underneath her baggy sweatshirt for a pocketknife.

But a huge hand caught her wrist before she could lay even a finger on the handle.

Before her, a man that could easily be described as a “man in black” loomed.

And he smiled at her while she fought to get his hand off of her wrist.

“We’ve been looking for you, Miss Chloe.”


	2. He left bruises, ma

The agent (“Agent Smith,” the man had sneered) briskly pulled her through the bar, taking no notice of her pulling or screaming or fighting to get away. Now, every patron in the bar was staring that the debacle, stale drinks and cold food forgotten. The girl hissed and spat like a feral cat, her eyes flashing and feet flying, trying desperately to catch his shin or foot or groin area. As his feet touched the pavement, his grip tightened around her wrist and she let out a squawk of pain. He dragged her to an unmarked car, opened the door, and hurled her inside. She hit the leather seat with an “oomf!” and instantly crawled to the other side of the seat, trying the door with desperation. Her usually empty eyes clouded over with basic survival instinct, and she rolled over on her back, attempting to kick the window out. The girl could feel a shiver of fear run up her spine when the window did not even crack. “Fucking let me out of here!” She screeched at the man, who was just getting in the driver’s seat. Her voice was like a metal-on-metal scream. He looked at her using the rear view mirror and chuckled. “You’re quite the little spitfire, aren’t you?” He asked, calm, his voice dripping with smugness and contempt. She growled then, a deep sound created in the back of her throat, and lunged underneath her tattered, frayed sweater for her knife. For a minute, she searched, growing more and more panicked by the second, and found nothing. The man smiled and pulled her knife from his sleeve. “Looking for this?” He asked, spinning it through his fingers like a knife thrower about to put on a show. She gasped and lunged for it, but he pulled it away before she could reach. The girl swallowed, her dry mouth a burden. She stared at the man through the mirror, their eyes connecting. “Please,” she said weakly, as he stared through her, “please, I ain’t done nothin’.” Her voice wavered, was quiet and meek from desperation and terror. She spoke as if she were conversing with a man who was holding a gun to her head. The man sneered again, an ugly movement that contorted his face into a cruel mask. He jammed the car key into the ignition and started up the car. The girl gasped and began to bang on the back window, screaming. “’Ain’t done nothin’’, eh?” The man growled as he pulled away from the _Letterback,_ “Don’t you know that being born is a crime?”

They drove for hours, the quiet roads giving way to rough gravel as they drove farther and farther from the city. After the fifth hour, she stopped screaming and trying to escape the vehicle, and slumped in the back seat. It had begun to rain, tiny splatters of water warping the windows. The agent did not say anything as she breathed onto the cold glass and traced pictures with the fog. “How old are you?” He asked finally, after watching her draw the same little bunny on the window for the twelfth time. The only sound in the car was the crunching of gravel under the tires and the pitter patter of raindrops, until she spoke. “Why do you care?” She asked, retracting her finger from the window. She sounded dismal. Internally, the agent flinched at her hopeless tone; he hoped that his little girls never sounded as defeated as the young lady in the back of his car. “’s not like it matters anyways…” she whispered quietly. Throughout the drive, the agent had snuck glances at the girl in the back seat, each time feeling worse and worse for her condition. Her knuckles were bloody, her clothes were frayed, filthy, and stained… But what was worse, was her _face_. She was not an ugly person, in fact, she was pretty. But her cheeks were gaunt, she had dark patches underneath her eyes, and she had a thousand yard stare.

She had seen too much at her age, however ambiguous it might be; he knew that she was young.

“Kid,” said the man, and the young lady looked at the back of his head dully, “You’ll like where you’re going.

I promise.”


	3. I'm tired, da

She fell asleep on the twelfth hour of the drive, cheeks stained with tears and snot running down her chin. The agent did not watch as she sobbed; she was a prideful little thing. And besides, she would probably use that extra phlegm to spit at him if he dared glance at her. As he pulled up to a facility deep in the boonies, he sighed. He had grown a strange fondness for the bad-mouthed ragamuffin that slept fitfully in the backseat of his car. But, he supposed, where she was going was a hellofalot better than where she had been. Quietly, he exited out the driver's side of the Lincoln, and opened the backdoor. He bent down and slipped an arm under her head, then her waist. And as gently as he could, he lifted her out of the car, not bothering to close the doors, lest the sound wake her. He walked slowly to the concrete facility, studying the girl's face.

She had been well fed once.

He looked up as his shoe hit a metal door. Or, a steel _barrier._ The entire facility could indeed be called a fortress, with high walls and a lookout tower. He felt the sun begin to rise, felt the reluctant heat begin to warm his back through his dark suit. He shifted the girl so her head was pressed slightly into his chest, shielding her eyes. Animals were also beginning to stir in the early morning, and dew wet strands of grass by the road. The agent waited to be let into the fortress impatiently, tapping his foot in the dirt. After five minutes, the doors began to creak, and opened just enough for him and the girl in his arms to enter. The agent grumbled slightly, and pressed the girl's body closer to his chest, squeezing through the door.

Each and every time that the agent was allowed into the facility, a shiver crawled up his back. There was little to no colour in the place, other than a sudden shock of yellow or red. The residents were kind enough, though there were not many; a skeleton and occasionally a yellow dinosaur creature typically worked in the labs. And even then, _they_ weren’t at the facility very often; just at the request of their king. The man quickly walked to the main building, a towering dome with a glass top. _‘Easier to see the stars,’_ he thought as he jogged up the stairs to the large oak doors to the _Observatory._ He felt the girl press her face harder into his chest at her jostling. With a tap to the doors that seemed to echo within the building, the man sighed. He feared for the people that would be dealing with the child when she woke up;

After all, she was a street kid.


End file.
